


Pawned

by eldritcher



Series: The Song of Sunset, The Second Age [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:34:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4007776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, we are all of us pawns in a greater game. </p><p>Ar-Pharazon and Tar-Miriel find out that Numenor is only a small piece of the grand plot left behind by a madman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pawned

Calion - Pharazôn’s name in the High-Tongue  
Zigûr - Adûnaic name of Sauron  
Minyatur - Elros’s self-assumed name after he makes his choice to embrace the life of the Edain.

 

 

 

Pawned

 

 

I paused upon the threshold of the ancient library, my steps drawn to a cease more by the sight that greeted me than an inherent regard for the tomes that enriched the chambers. The floor-length curtains billowed in the western gale. Casting a malevolent glance in that direction, I brooded darkly upon the recent climate adversities. Weather had reaped destruction of life and livelihood across all of Númenórë, though the capital city was undoubtedly borne the brunt of it. 

A weary sigh of frustration abruptly drew me away from my morose thoughts and I turned once again to watch with a wry smile as the object of my regard scowled in determination and shucked up a long, flowing robe to allow greater freedom of movement. Before I could even wonder what necessitated the action, the answer came in the form of a ladder propped against a stately shelf that bore books ancient than Númenórë herself. 

Panic that I might lose the keeper of my unworthy heart, ever-present, once again flared violently within me and I was about to shout a remonstrance. But instinct made me rein in that unruly impulse and instead, I walked into the chamber taking care to keep my tread soft. A startled gasp escaped parted lips when my hands crept about a slim waist. 

“My lord!” she breathed, her astonishment showing vividly in her wide, grey eyes. 

“Míriel,” I whispered, half-muffling my words in the luxuriant forest of her dark hair as I buried my face in the depths of it. “You sound surprised to find me here. Am I unwelcome?”

I knew she was smiling though I could not see her features. I could tell it by the way faint wrinkles caressed my fingers that were mapping the familiar planes of her face.

“Never unwelcome.” She turned in the embrace and forced me gently to vanquish the dearly bought peace I had found in that moment with my nose buried in her hair. “I am merely curious as to what brought my lord to this den of mundane scrolls and mouldy tomes.”

“I care not for the tomes, I admit.” I laughed and snatched a rapid kiss from her quirked lips. “I came to find you, in a bid to persuade you to retire for the night using whatever skills at charm I possess.” 

Her eyes warmed at the statement and she brought a graceful hand to caress my cheek in the ephemeral manner she had. I sighed and leant in with a deeply grateful sigh, feeling my burdens dissipate in the wake of her soothing touch. 

“I fear for our country, my lord,” she said quietly, and drew her hand away taking away the aura of bliss that she had graced me with it. “Perhaps I may find something within these tomes that shall avail us in dispelling the foul weather that has wreaked death and destruction mercilessly in this fair city.”

“History can only tell us what happened in the past. It cannot give us a strategy for the present.” 

I softened my words with a gentle sweep of my fingers across her fevered brow. She had worn herself thin and ill, working thusly for weeks without respite, unheeding of my protestations at her failing health and lit within by the pure fire of our forbearers that had always drawn our people to her. 

“I cannot,” she said after a long pause. I drew my fingers away in frustration, but she caught them with her own and said softly, “Our people die, Calion. They die before our eyes.”

Perhaps it was the burning patriotism that shone in her words that made me embark on my next statement. But likelier cause was the sincere, broken tone in which she had uttered my given name. It had escaped her in the physical exhaustion and emotional turmoil she was reeling under. I suppressed the desire to shout from the rooftops that my queen had finally addressed me thus without pleading from my part. 

“Come then.” I drew her to me and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “I see that one of the servants has built the fire. The armchair awaits you. Tell me where the books are. I will bring them to you. I am better attired to climb ladders.”

“You cannot-” she protested, looking aghast at the very suggestion.

“I wish to.” 

I nodded towards the cosy armchair and gave her my sternest glare. Predictably, that worked and she hastily bowed before complying. That she who held absolute power over my being could still fear me was truly ironic. I shook my head ruefully and gathered the tomes she had piled up on the table. Then I followed her to the fireside. 

The colour was returning to her pale cheeks and I sighed in contentment for a battle won. Taking in the tacit invitation in her eyes, I sat at her feet and resisted the urge to purr when fingers came to comb my hair in a languid manner.

“May I make a proposal?” she asked me after long moments of companionable silence with the sound of the shifting logs behind the firegrate the only noise. 

“Sadly, our laws do not allow you to propose to me, or the equally delightfully reverse scenario.” I yawned and daringly lifted her legs over my shoulders and down into my lap. She froze for a moment. I waited for the stinging words of disapproval expressed about my disregard for propriety. 

“After all these years, you still confound me,” was her only remark, though the words were coloured by fond amusement. 

“No more than you bewilder me,” I retorted. “Any other woman would have squeaked like a mouse and whined about our current location in a very public place.”

“Zigûr and I are the only cohabitants of these hallowed tomes,” she said dryly. 

“If I had known you would have allowed me these liberties,” I lifted the robe up till her ankles and tickled her feet, reveling in the low, helpless laughter that resounded within the chambers, “then I might have been wiser to the comforts of the library.”

“I would have my lord take me to his bed.” She paused as I made to spring and obey her words instantly. I groaned and waited her to finish, striving my utmost to chase my threatening scowl that loomed on the horizon. “But would he read aloud this book for me ere that?”

“Give me that,” I grumbled and snatched the small journal from her hands. Recognition seized hold of me immediately and I said, “It is Tar-Minyatur’s account of his life. There is nothing in it that you and I have not studied in our lessons of childhood.”

“Would you read that aloud for me?” 

“There are better bedtime tales.”

“Yet I find that this intrigues me the most tonight.”

“I have been unacquainted with the Old Tongue for many decades. I could call one of the Elendili spies that litter my court to read this aloud to you.”

Her legs shifted uncomfortably within my lap before she said near inaudibly, “But I crave to hear your voice lending shape and substance to our forefather’s words.”

“Do you like my voice?” I asked breathlessly, forgetting all about sorcerers who insisted upon blood sacrifices, Elendili and the cruel Lords of the West. 

She squeezed one of my shoulders saying, “It is as golden as the sunlight that washes the shores of Andúnië at dusk.”

“I had not thought to include poetic flattery among your stellar virtues,” I remarked teasingly, though my heart was set aflutter by her words.

“Yet I shall not exhibit the said attribute further until you finish reading that for me,” she parried.

“Anything for you, of course.” 

I opened the musty tome and crinkled my nose at the smell of mould. Perhaps I should send someone to air the chambers. Knowing Míriel’s determination, I might as well as endeavour to make her entombment in the library comfortable.

The High-Elven script brought back memories of the past, when I had learnt under my grandfather’s loremasters about the history of our people. Suppressing a rising wave of nostalgia as I thought of my childhood, I began reading the words inscribed by Tar-Minyatur. I was surprised to find that my grasp of the old tongue was still excellent and breathed a sigh of relief when the sentences rolled out smoothly from my lips without the clumsiness of ignorance. Her fingers came to thread through my hair once again and I settled into the rhythm, losing myself to the twin pleasures of her touch and my reading. Then I came across a yellow, folded square of paper. Frowning, I lifted it and passed it to my companion. She unlocked her legs from my torso and slid down so that we were draped across the carpet side by side. And her slow, melodious voice warmed the long forgotten runes even as her robe clad body warmed my skin.

 

 

 

Year 135 of the Second Age,

Andúnië.

 

Once again, I watch the waves crashing upon the shores of this blessed land and I think of Ada Maglor and dear Maedhros. Every sunset reminds me of Maedhros, of his defiance in the face of the long defeat. Círdan had once said that it was foresight that made Maedhros choose to remain in the wilds thus sealing his eventual death and not pride. But I was not convinced. They were of my blood and I knew well the bitter flame of pride that haunted us all. 

I do not deny that Maedhros had possessed foresight. Many a time have I witnessed the events that he had foreseen come to pass. Yet even darker and ominous had been his farsightedness. That he had made me swear an oath to come to my brother’s aid does not worry me. I would do so anyway. 

But I had known Maedhros Fëanorion. I had learnt diplomacy and statesmanship from him. Thus I have an inkling of how he spawned his strategies. Not for him had been the politics of Beleriand or the rivalries between the Sindar and the Noldor. His boards were vast and spread over the Ages. There were two kinds of men; those who pawned others and those who pawned themselves; so Maedhros had taught me. But he had not discerned yet another category, that uniquely defined his status in the hierarchy. He pawned others with as little compunction as he had when pawning himself. Now he had pawned my blood and seed. What would it come to?

I know that my oath will not be fulfilled by me, or by my sons, or by my grandsons. It shall be centuries after my bones have returned to soil and perhaps after my brother had achieved his destiny. 

Maedhros had once told me that what was raised from the sea shall be consumed by the sea. At the time I had feared he spoke of the Silmaril that my mother had claimed. Yet, now standing here upon the seashore, decades after I have sailed to this land, I understand what he had meant. Númenórë shall be returned to the sea. And my line shall fail. Perhaps upon the unfortunate scion of mine who rules then shall fall the onus of the oath I once swore to Maedhros.

That Maedhros had cut another deal with the Valar, I am sure of. What else would explain the presence of a seemingly innocent jewel that washed ashore when I walked upon the shores during dusk as was my wont? Ulmo had brought to me the Silmaril that Ada Maglor had thrown into the sea. 

I knew then that I had been perfectly manipulated by the most consummate politician I had ever known. My brother would defy the West; he was as blasphemous as Maedhros himself. And my brother would need my aid one day, perhaps after my realm had passed into the mist. How then would my scions satisfy the oath? An oath of blood and soul that would hold my line in thrall even after death that was now sealed by the Silmaril. 

I feared for the Silmaril. My people were not untainted by greed. Nor was I. My mother’s blood flowed within me and I loved power. Hadn’t Maedhros realised that? He must have. Perhaps that was why he had chosen me over Elrond. Elrond would have spurned the jewel. 

I have set it within the sceptre of the King and there it would remain through generations of my line, claiming the loyalty and fealty of my house till the end. 

I pity the scion of mine who would have to uphold the Oath. Yet I cannot but forgive Maedhros for his manipulation. He had loved me deeply. There must have been no other way. I know there was no other way. 

He has joined his cursed family in the Void, but he has set the board for Galadriel. Shall victory be hers where generations of our family have failed? 

 

 

“The rest of the words have faded away,” she finished, her voice trembling. “Calion, do you-”

“It is merely what he thought.” I kissed her brow, trying to leash in the memories of greed that had plagued me from the first moment I had seen the sceptre in my grandfather’s right hand. The Silmaril had called to me, as it had always called those who knew ambition and a lust for life. “I propose that we retire.”

“The sceptre of Númenórë shines brighter than the sun, My King.” Zigûr had told me once, his eyes distant and introspective. 

He had recognised it. Finally I understood the reason behind the willing submission of defeat he had made decades ago at Umbar. The greater fool I was to take the sceptre east along with me on that campaign.

“But,” she brought a shaking finger to the damning words on the faded parchment. 

“While we live, let us live,” I pulled her to her feet along with me and took the letter from her. Without waiting for the second instinct, I tore it unevenly and fed it to the fire. 

“Can you burn away the oath from our blood, Calion?” Her voice was trembling, yet undaunted. 

 

 

We did not speak of the matter again. Yet it haunted us, even as we watched the wrath of the west gather momentum with the passing years. Zigûr’s schemes unfolded slowly. The man himself remained as unobtrusive and cold as ever. He treated me with respect and Míriel with the finest courtesy. He did not understand my regard for her. I wondered often if he had ever known love.

Each time I held the sceptre in my hand, the oath my forefather had sworn burned within my heart. I knew, without the aid of premonition and prophesy, that I would be the ill-fated scion Elros had pitied. 

 

 

“The fleet awaits the King,” Zigûr said smoothly. Then he continued, with seeming hesitance. “Never have I seen such a magnificent sight as the armada arrayed now upon these waters.”

“And will your prayers to Morgoth ensure that the armada returns to Númenórë?” Tar-Míriel’s voice was cold and forbidding. “Sully not my lord’s presence with your venomous counsel in these moments.”

Zigûr did not meet her eyes. Instead, he cast his eyes out to the fleet of ships and murmured, “Melkor cannot grant us victory, my queen. I know Manwe. He shall warp the song of Ainur yet again.”

“Yet again?” Míriel stepped forward. 

“Tales of old.” He shrugged and knelt before me. “I have not served Númenórë, My King. But I have served you. I shall serve your queen as faithfully in the coming days, this I swear.”

“Rise.” 

I embraced him as I had embraced my other courtiers. As Míriel had said earlier, during those last moments of peace I would ever know with her within the confines of our chamber, it was too late to punish Zigûr for his consummate treachery. And I had not been an ardent believer from the beginning. It would be obtuse to blame my actions on Zigûr’s schemes. I had not believed in Morgoth either, after all. 

Zigûr pressed a kiss to my signet ring and then left the chamber. Míriel and I stared at each other, our eyes speaking ever more than our words could convey.

“Take the scepter with you.”

“I cannot. You are the queen of Númenórë. I have abdicated in your favour, as I told you yesterday in our court. The sceptre belongs here, with you.” I could not bring myself to add the words, as it always had.

Something sparkled within those starlit grey eyes and she asked, “Then I am your Queen?”

“And my liege,” I added in a hushed voice. 

She nodded and her features remained inscrutable. For the first time in years, I feared her. I had always been in control. But not now. I gulped and turned away to watch my armada. It had to be done. It was the only act of redemption I had performed in my damned life.

“Then my first command is that you take the sceptre with you,” she said after long moments of uncomfortable silence had marked the time ebbing away.

“I cannot-”

“Calion.”

I fell silent and gazed upon the cursed jewel that had once been hallowed by Varda. I had often wondered why it had not scarred my hands. With the exception of Melkor, I was probably the worst sinner to touch it. 

“It is no longer hallowed.” Míriel’s hand closed over mine about the sceptre. “You will take it with you, Calion. It shall serve you when the time comes.”

“A Silmaril cannot defeat the Valar,” I whispered sadly. It had come, our parting. And I no longer had the strength of mind to accept it with dignity. 

A sparkle of unshed sorrow marred the serenity of her eyes and she breathed, “We must do our part. I wish that it had not been us. But we cannot change anything, and deep in our hearts, we know that we would not change fate even if we could.”

“Kiss me, once again.”

And she did. It was bitter, sensual and poignant, a candle to the years we had spent together, as cousins, as victim and vanquished, as King and prisoner and finally, for an unmercifully short time as man and wife. I knew the memory of our lips searing their parting covenant would burn me on cold nights.

 

I was in the small rowboat that would ferry me to the great battleship, Alcarondas. I reached across once more to grasp the pale fingers of the one that had been my ultimate perdition. 

“You and I shall not win against the west, Calion,” she said quietly, her eyes upon the setting sun that blazed defiant in its battle against the darkness upon the horizon. “But you and I shall be a part of the victory at the end. We are but pawns in a greater game that we do not understand.”

“We had better be, for I am not abandoning my lands, my crown and my wife for anything else!” I tried to jest and diminish the sheer agony of parting.

She wore a smile for my sake and I did the same for her. When she had receded to a speck in the distance, I lifted aloft my sceptre to the shoreline. She would see, I knew. The Silmaril burned a magnificent crimson in the rays of the setting sun. Had Maedhros Fëanorion known when he devised his elaborate tapestry of intrigue that even the pawns who fought for his cause bled in heart and body, that they were of flesh and blood? If he had known, would he have made my forefather swear the oath? 

And then I could see her no more. I turned west. 

It was time.


End file.
